


Come Away To The Water

by Losseflame



Category: Hunger Games (2012), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:43:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losseflame/pseuds/Losseflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peacekeepers catch Stiles by his shoulders and push him back, and something rises in his throat as he sees Scott walking towards something that almost certainly promises death.</p>
<p>Stiles opens his mouth, pushes against the Peacekeepers.</p>
<p>“I volunteer!”  He screams.  The Peacekeepers take a few steps back and Scott stops walking, looking over his shoulder with wide, panicked eyes.  Finstock’s eyes get buggier.  The world stands still. </p>
<p>Stiles hands shake as he speaks again.</p>
<p>“I volunteer as tribute.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Stiles wakes up, it’s to grey-blue light of not-really-morning-yet and to Scott thrashing around, half-sleep, caught in a panic attack or an asthma attack or another negative attack brought on by being a sickly orphan dependant on your best friend to take care of you in the poorest district around.

                Which, nice to know how much confidence Scott puts in him, not like he’s been doing just fine for the past few years – somewhere in the back of Stiles’ mind that isn’t affect by morning grumpiness notes that that isn’t fair; Scott has every right to be wary about the shift of power from Melissa McCall (bless her soul, she’s in a better place, and all that) to Stiles Stilinski – but Stiles digresses.

                As one does.

                He stretches his hand across the rough canvas thrown haphazardly over the mattress to grasp Scott’s shoulder, pulling himself closer and wincing at the sound of Scott’s half-gasped, struggling breaths.  Scott’s eyes flutter and his vocal chords scrape together a harsh-sounding protest of ‘no’ and –

                And Stiles really isn’t mad about being woken up earlier than he should have anymore, not in the face of the sudden swell of something that most definitely is not protective affection.  His mind already rationalizes it with logic – the earlier out he is to the forest, the more time he has to hunt, after all. 

                (Affection’s dangerous even when it isn’t Reaping Day.  Especially the protective kind.)

                “Scott, wake up.”  Stiles’ voice is still rough with sleep, and it cracks over the last word.  Scott, naturally, uses his inborn instinct to ignore good advice and remains asleep, caught in whatever nightmare’s popular in his nugget this week.  To think Scott used to be the brave one of the two.  “Okay, fine, ignore me, whatever.”

                This prompts no more of a reaction from Scott than a slightly pained groan, and Stiles sighs, clearing his throat.

                He starts to hum the lullaby Melissa used to sing to Scott in her world-weary, none-too-pretty voice – the same one she started singing to Stiles after his mom died in the mining accident and Melissa decided to move in with Scott and make sure his father didn’t go completely to ruin – and Stiles tries not to let his automatic swell of self-consciousness affect him much.  Not to say he succeeds, but by the time he reaches the second verse, Scott’s calmed down, his eyelids still and his breathing even.

                Cold floors are distasteful and obscene and no one likes them.  They are the escorts of a house, if a house was a district – every house gets them around the same time of year but everyone in the house hates them with a passion they can’t verbalize.

                Yeah. 

                Stiles shakes his head and refocuses again, stepping into his boots and checking on Scott one last time before closing the bedroom door lightly.  When he passes the kitchen, he freezes.  His father is sitting at the kitchen table, bottle in one hand and picture of his dead wife in the other.  Stiles shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable; the sight is more of a punch to the gut than anything visual.  John Stilinski’s cheeks are red and his eyes are droopier than they usually are, hands shaking in a barely-there tremble.

                Still drunk from last night.

                Most days, John keeps this carefully kept away, just another unmentionable the Stilinskis carry around like spare change they don’t have, the memory of his mother and John’s decreasing sobriety an invisible jingle in their pockets.  The only times John’s let Stiles see him drunk before the afternoon have been either on the anniversary of the accident or –

                Oh.

                On Reaping Days.

                Words push to the forefront of Stile’s throat, the long thought banished childish urge to demand John to put the bottle down, the picture away, to demand _attention_ rising.  He coughs awkwardly instead, moving towards the door as quietly as he can.  They don’t talk about it, really, that once a year two youths are taken from their district and made to fight to the death, that each year there’s a chance it might be Stiles. 

                “Scott had his panic attack yet?”  John’s voice cuts through the silence, and if Stiles was a bit more poetic he’d say you could see the silence bleed apathy.  As it is, Stiles shrugs, playing dumb; he’s never been able to get a good reading on what John though of Stiles playing Mama Bear to Scott.  “Every year.  Every year he wakes up in a fit, and you calm him down by reassuring him that his name isn’t going to get picked.  And every year it isn’t.  Boy’d do good to remember that.”

                Stiles freezes, unable to come up with anything to say to that.  And isn’t that a thought, him having trouble with words, considering it’s all he can do to keep quiet when someone else is around.  “Yeah.”  He settles on, agreeing softly, before brushing past his father towards the door.

                He can only handle so much emotion in a day. 

.:.:.

                Stiles slips past the fence with ease built by routine, heading out to the forest in a pick run.  (Once upon a time, he thought Scott would outgrow his asthma and hunt with Stiles and Lydia, them being a merry band of three.  That changed after Melissa died and it only got worse.

                Stiles has a mental graveyard for dreams involving Scott.)

                He picks up his bow and arrows – given to him by Allison Argent, the Mayor’s daughter and Scott’s dream girl, after she renounced crime from her daily life – from a tree hollow and slings them over his shoulder.  Sunlight is just starting to filter through the treetops, and Stiles breathe in, out, quiet, as he captures a glimpse of a deer.  He nocks an arrow, narrows his eyes, pulls his arm back and –

                A loud, sharp whistle scares the deer into skittering away.

                “Lydia!”  Stiles turns to where Lydia is smiling thinly.  “That was, for your information – you look wonderful as always, my offer of marriage still stands – the first deer I’d seen in a year!  That could have got enough money for me to buy _essentials_ that I need in my life.  Not everyone can bum off the Mayor’s family on account of vagina bonding.”  He finishes with a triumphant toss of his head, which maybe would hold more weight if his hair wasn’t an inch long, and Lydia raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, twirling a lock of red hair around a skinning knife. 

                Which – beautiful and terrifying.  Arousal is always mixes best with fear, anyway.

                “Alright, even if you _had_ got the deer, where would you have put it?  How would you have gotten it to the market without the Peacekeepers descending on you?”  Lydia says, her sarcasm scathing but something like concern broaching her eyes.  Stiles shifts uncomfortably.

                “Like you don’t sell to Peacekeepers.”

                “Not today.  I’m not quite that stupid.”  Lydia says, picking up a rock.  “Besides, I have a get rich quick scheme.”

                And then, because Lydia possibly lost all of her sanity when Peter Hale went on his rampage a few years back, she flings the rock at a tree with all of her not-inconsiderable strength.

                Stiles is about to squawk before birds fly out of the tree, and then his body is acting on autopilot, shooting a bird down without thought.

                “Did you really think I’d let you go without your _essentials_?”  Lydia smirks, and Stiles may or may not fall in love with her all over again.

                He grins.  “Never.”

.:.:.

                What he loves most about Lydia – and since it will never happen, Stiles feels safe in using that word – is that is hardly seems to matter than it’s Reaping Day, that her name is in 16 times and that his is in 20.  (The both of them are too poor not to use Tesserae.)  Not much seems to matter when he’s with Lydia, the world and its problems shoved beneath them by the sheer force of Lydia’s contempt.

                It’s a refreshing change from the ever present tension in their district, desperation fraying at the edges of every person Stiles sees.

                They’re sitting under the covers of trees, near the open field neither of them are quite comfortable enough to sit it, listening to the lazy hum of Capitol airship as it flies overhead, when Lydia speaks again, breaking through Stiles’ babble.

                “We could leave, if we wanted.”  She looks contemplative, her voice the same tone she uses to discuss the latest gossip.  Stiles turns to her, raising an eyebrow.

                “Yeah, sure, okay.  What about your mom?  What about Allison?  What about _Scott_?  I’d have to bring him with me, and his lungs give up on him on a regular basis even when he’s not running through a forest.”  He pauses for a beat, Lydia giving him a withering look.  “And even if, for some miraculous reason, they became irrelevant in our lives-”  They both wince a little with guilt at that thought; Stiles cares about Scott, more than is healthy, but his life would be a lot easier if they hadn’t met, “Even if that happened, Peacekeepers would find us before we made it five miles.”

                She sighs.  “We could stop watching the Games, if we wanted, too.  All of us.”

                And there it is, the shroud that’s hanging over everyone.  The Hunger Game.  Wherein once a year, two people from each district between the ages of 12 and 18 are chosen by lottery to fight to the death on T.V. 

Stiles grins, wide and toothy and entirely fake.  “Oh yeah, let’s make it a public announcement.  Boycott your television for _change_.”  The smile drops.  “People are never going to stop watching, you know that.  Not as long as family members still give a shit and Capitol citizens remain fucked in the head.”

“I’m just _saying_ , Stiles, take the watchers away and we render the entire thing pointless.”  Lydia says, her voice arching argumentatively.

“What you’re just _saying_ will get you killed, Lydia!  And then who will take care of your mom?  And if I just _say_ stuff – stuff that matters, that’s dangerous – and get myself killed, who’s going to take care of Scott?  Who will take care of my dad?  We can’t just _say_ stuff, Lydia, look what happened to Peter Hale!”

That name falls dead in the suddenly tense air.  Stiles swallows, his throat dry.

“…I think I know better than anyone else what happened to Peter Hale.”  Lydia says, her voice cold and venomous and her eyes narrowed.

Stiles always knows how to shoot himself in the foot best.

But Lydia seems to be feeling merciful today, because she just rolls her shoulders and stands up.  “We should go get ready for the Happy Hunger Games.”

Stiles glances away; thinks of Scott trying desperately to slick his hair back into some semblance of good up keeping.

“Yeah, we should.”

.:.:.

                Scott is, not unpredictably, grey-faced with anxiety and trying to put on a brave face when Stiles gets home.  Stiles clutches the mockingjay pin he picked up at the market place for Scott hard enough to leave indents in his palm before walking forwards and scraping Scott’s hair back into an acceptable style.

                “I have something for you.”  He says, pinning the iron thing on Scott’s shirt collar.  Scott glances down at it, grinning an easy, simple smile, anxiety momentarily forgotten.  He doesn’t say thanks, but at this point Stiles is used to Scott being blissfully unaware of Stiles’ sacrifices for him.

                In a way, it’s better.  That way Stiles doesn’t have to deal with too many touchy-feely moments, which they’ve never been good at.

                Stiles smiles in response and ignores that his dad’s gone MIA.  “Allison would think you’re handsome, probably.”

                Of course mentioning Allison brightens Scott’s day, and his smile goes soft and dopey.

                “I’m going to get ready now, alright?”  Stiles says, and proceeds to do just that, washing with cold water as best he can and shimmying into his best clothes.

                His best clothes still just barely qualify for rags, but he’ll make do.  His hair’s too short to do anything with it, and as he stands in front of the one full length mirror, he grimaces.  It looks like a twelve year old boy wearing ill-fitting clothes stares back at him, callused hands and darting eyes not helping the image.

                Eventually he shrugs, because it’s not like he can do much about it.  The hard pressure of fear is just starting to build up in the base of his stomach as he calls out for Scott, but the words are quickly cut off at the sight of his father, looking relatively sober.

                “Dad?”  Stiles hates the vulnerable tremble in his voice.

                “Stiles.”  John sighs, bringing a hand up and putting it on Stiles’ shoulder before going the whole nine yards and dragging Stiles into a hug.  Stiles freezes just for a moment – it’s been years since they’ve done this – but he hugs back, tucking his face into the crook of John’s shoulder before releasing him.  John smells like stale booze and he looks weary as he speaks again.  “Scott’s already heading out.  A dark haired girl came to pick him up.”

                Allison, naturally.

                It’s both a relief and a slap in the face to know that Scott feels comfortable enough now to head out to the Reaping without Stiles, and something must flicker across his face because his dad squeezes his should again.  “Whatever…happens out there, Stiles, just know that – I love you.”

                Stiles looks down at the floor, where John already directed his gaze.  “Yeah, I know, Dad.”  A pause.  “Are you – are you going to go to the Reaping?”

                John sighs again, sounding much too tired for his age.  “No, I don’t think so, Stiles.  You should head out.”

                And then he’s gone, just as quickly as he showed up.  Stiles swallows, his throat feeling swollen.  The talk was as stilted and choppy as all of their other ones, post-mining accident, and it shouldn’t affect Stiles as much as it does.

                That doesn’t mean it’s any easier, walking out to the Reaping and knowing that his father won’t be there to will another name to picked than his son’s.

.:.:.

                This year, the escort is a man named Finstock, with bright blue spiky hair, buggy eyes and a smile so large it looks like his jaw is on hinges.

                “Welcome, welcome, District 12!”  His voice is nasally and every vowel is tinged with the Capitol’s accent.  “The time has come to select two youths to represent your district in the 74th annual Hunger Game!”  He finishes with a nauseating smile, spreading his arms wide as if he expects a round of applause.

                There is silence.  Stiles has a burst of petty joy, mingling with the heady worry.  He glances around the crowd and makes eye contact with Lydia, who mimes gagging.  He grins.

                Finstock seems unconcerned.  Or unaware.  “But first, a small video from the Capitol.”  The large screen beside the stage flickers to life, and a propaganda video starts, reminding the viewers why the Hunger Games started and why they continue even now.  It shows clips of previous victories in the arena, President Harris’s voice rising in the background.  Finstock keeps his head down reverently and murmurs the words along under his breath.

                Stiles is, for lack of a better word, disgusted.

                The video finishes, and Finstock looks up again with his manic smile.  “I just love that, don’t you?”  Silence again, but for a child coughing.  Once again, this goes ignored.  “And now, let’s choose our first tribute!”  His voice trills at the end of the word, and Stiles gags internally.

                Until the paper is selected, unfolded, and read out loud.  Finstock clears his voice just a tad, and then –

                “Scott McCall!”

                Stiles’ heart stops, the world going quiet around them and the crowd parts subtly around Scott, who stands shell-shocked next to Allison, her hands gripping his arm.  Peacekeepers move forward, pushing towards Scott.

                “No.”  Stiles mumbles as he watches Scott detach himself from Allison, sweeping a hand nervously over his hair before he starts walking towards the stage.

                Scott, with his dopey smiles and asthma attacks and big dreams and uneven jawline.

                Scott, the kid Stiles has been taking care since they were twelve and Melissa died of an untreated fever.

                Scott, Stiles’ best friend.

                “No.”  Stiles says, louder this time, feeling dazed.  He starts walking towards Scott quickly.  “Nononono” 

Peacekeepers catch Stiles by his shoulders and push him back, and something rises in his throat as he sees his best friend walking towards something that almost certainly promises death.

Stiles opens his mouth, pushes against the Peacekeepers.

“I volunteer!”  He screams.  The Peacekeepers take a few steps back and Scott stops walking, looking over his shoulder with wide, panicked eyes.  Finstock’s eyes get buggier.  The world stands still.

Stiles hands shake as he speaks again.

“I volunteer as tribute.”     


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And now, to choose our second tribute!” Finstock says cheerfully. 
> 
> An ice block sits heavy on Stiles’ chest at the words, and he looks up at the sky to avoid seeing Finstock walk over to the large glass bowl with everyone’s names in it, not wanting to witness the slow execution of someone else.
> 
> But he hears it. The rustle of paper as Finstock digs to the bottom, the crisp snap of the tape holding the paper folded breaking, Finstock clearing his throat again.
> 
> “Derek Hale!”

Finstock’s voice drones on about protocol in the background, but it’s fuzzed out in Stiles’ ears as his mouth opens and closes again, like maybe he can eat the words he just spoke.  It feels like he’s under water, sounds muffled and movements slow, and he takes one stiff step forwards.

He so did not see this coming.

(Except, if he thinks about it, this has always been the plan if it was Scott.)

Scott rushes to Stiles even as the Peacekeepers mean to pull him back.  “Stiles, what are you doing?”

The panicked edge in Scott’s voice triggers something in Stiles’ brain, something fine-tuned to keeping Scott happy and calm, and it snaps him out of his daze.  “Scott, it’s okay, just go back to Allison, go to Lydia, she’ll take care of you –”

“No, Stiles, this isn’t happening, you can’t do this!”  Now Scott’s hands are curled into Stiles’ collar and the Peacekeepers look like they’re going to get violent.  Stiles pushes Scott back as hard as he can, and Scott stumbles backwards.

Lydia walks forward and wraps her hand around Scott’s wrist, dragging him away.  Stiles’ hands twitch with the urge to _fix it_ as he hears Scott start to break down.

But he can’t fix it this time.

The Peacekeepers go to each of his points, as if to stop any more unnecessary emotional outbursts.  They cage him in as he walks towards the stage, heat simmering on the back of his neck and dust sticking to his nervous sweat.  And to think he dressed up for this.

“That was your friend, wasn’t it?  You probably didn’t want him to steal all the glory, you sneaky minx!”  Finstock’s voice booms out over the crowd, all obscene cheerfulness.  Stiles feels a shudder go down his spine.  “Well, come up here, sir, there we go.”

Stiles climbs the stairs up to the stage and lets Finstock put his blue-nailed hand on Stile’s shoulder, guiding him to stand beside the microphone.  “What’s your name?”

“Stiles, um, Stilinski.  I mean my real name isn’t Stiles but that’s what everyone calls me so, um, yeah.”  He clears his throat, nervous babble threatening to escape.  He sees Lydia in the crowd, arm curled around Scott, shaking her head at him.  He bites his tongue and steps back.  Finstock gives him a mildly frightening admirable look, intensity making his eyes seem bigger and darker than they are.  Stiles could step forwards and fall into them, like they’re open doors, and escape, he’d like to fancy.

“And that was your friend?”

Stiles nods, quickly, frantically.  “Yeah, my best friend.  He’s an idiot but –”  He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, hunching his shoulders.

Finstock grins, carnivorously.  “Well, District 12, let’s have a round of applause for your _very_ _first_ volunteer!”

District 12 is not known for its selfless citizens, desperation to survive making it more likely for a neighbour to stab another in the back than offer a helping hand.  So never once had there been a volunteer before.  It was unheard of in District 12 to risk yourself for another.  Until now, Stiles supposes.  That said, when Finstock starts clapping his hands together quickly, excitedly, the people gathered in front of the stage remain silent, still.  Finstock lets out a forced laugh and keeps clapping.

It’s the greatest sign of rebellion they can offer, Stiles thinks.  But then, in the front row, a twelve year old – this is clearly her first Reaping, if the tear tracks and nervous tremble have anything to say about it – raises her hand in a three fingered salute.  Stiles’ breath catches, waiting for retribution.  Instead, another hand follows her.  And another.  And another.  Until every person has their hand raised, silently offering Stiles the gesture that means thanks, that means admiration, that means goodbye to a loved one.

He catches Scott’s eye, whose hand is raised highest, and feels like the breath has been punched out of his lungs, a yawning ache opening in his chest as he realizes what he’ll be leaving behind.  What he won’t be coming back to, probably.

Subtly, he slips his hands inside his pockets to hide their trembling, clenching them into fists.

“Ahem, yes, congratulations to Mr. Stiles Stilinski!”  Finstock says loudly, clearly uncomfortable with the sight in front of him.  If it were anyone else, Stiles would have rolled his eyes.  “And now, to choose our second tribute!” 

An ice block sits heavy on Stiles’ chest at the words, and he looks up at the sky to avoid seeing Finstock walk over to the large glass bowl with everyone’s names in it, not wanting to witness the slow execution of someone else.

But he hears it.  The rustle of paper as Finstock digs to the bottom, the crisp _snap_ of the tape holding the paper folded breaking, Finstock clearing his throat again.

“Derek Hale!”

The crowd remains fermented in its apathetic silence, but it does shift, subtly, revealing a dark haired boy, two years older than Stiles, wearing a shell-shocked expression.

Stiles grits his teeth.  He knows Derek Hale.  By sight, of course, because the Hales run the bakery here – at least, that’s the only reason that Stiles commonly acknowledges.  Most know the family because of what Peter Hale did, but Stiles – Stiles likes to ignore that ever happening.  They’re rich enough that none of them ever needed to use Tesserae, which is how Laura Hale, the older one, made it past 18 with no incident. 

(One couldn’t say the same for Peter Hale, but no one liked thinking about that.)

Stiles’ eyes dart to Laura Hale’s face, standing separate from the crowd of potential tributes.  Her face is stitched with a tortured expression, and she takes a step forwards, as if she wants to do the same thing Stiles did.

But she is three years too late to offer any help, and she can only watch as the crowds part, the Peacekeepers move forward, and Derek Hale walks up to Finstock with a stony expression.

“No volunteers this time?”  Finstock says in a jovial tone.  “Looks like you aren’t as popular as Scott there, my boy.”  He claps Derek on the shoulder, and Derek tenses up, keeping his eyes on the ground.  Of course he isn’t as popular, not with the last name he has and the stigma it carries.

Stiles looks over, his heart clenching as he thinks about the last time he saw that hunted look.

It’d been after a failed hunt, when Stiles had only been 13 at the most, and he’d been sitting behind the bakery, waiting for – something.  Tired and hungry and wet from the rain, he’d watched Derek Hale’s mother berate Derek for letting loaves burn, spitting out harsh words.  Derek had kept his head down and his shoulders tense, taking it with silence.  With a final order to throw the ruined loaves to the pigs, the mother had swept off, slamming the door behind her as she went.  And Derek…had thrown them to Stiles instead, catching his eye and tossing food that had probably saved his life and Scott’s in his direction before turning around and going back into his house without comment.

It seems utterly unfair that Derek is standing next to Stiles now.

“District 12, I give you your tributes:  Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale!”  Finstock starts clapping by himself again, his smile large and toothy.  “Now, tributes, shake hands!”  He gestures between the two of them, stepping back to give them room.

Stiles chafes under the label of ‘tribute’, his identity already fading beneath that word.  But he offers a hand out anyway, raising his eyes to meet Derek’s.

Derek’s eyes are grim and his handshake is strong enough that Stiles can almost hear his bones creak.

It becomes very clear to Stiles who would win if they fought as he looks down at his hand, where Derek’s fingers had left red bands on his flesh.

Finstock looks between them with a satisfied smile on his face, before carefully herding them into the building behind them.  “You’ll have our chances to say good-bye soon, and then will be heading off in about two hours, alright?”

Two hours before he leaves forever.  The thought is a blow to Stiles’ ribs, because he harbours no delusions over his chances at winning.  He’s as thin as a twig and only has his ability with a bow and arrow to his name.

A thin buzz of panic starts in the back of his head, a precursor to a panic attack, and as soon as he’s left alone in the visiting room he starts to pace, taking deep, whooping breaths and running his hands over his head.  He hadn’t had one of them since he took responsibility for Scott, indulgent little things like that pushed away by the demand of getting food, clothes, comfort.

This is how Scott and Lydia find him, when they’re pushed into the room with a barked call of ‘five minutes’.  Scott rushes forwards, curls his hands in Stiles’ collar like he did when they were kids and presses their foreheads together.

It’s enough to push Stiles into Mama Bear mode, the metallic scent of fear and sadness that clings to Scott.

“Hey, it’ll be okay.”  Stiles’ voice sounds rough, and he slips his arms around Scott in a hug as Scot shakes and gasps.  “It’ll be okay, just listen to me.  Lydia’s gonna take care of you, okay?  You can keep your job right now, you don’t have to do anything more, because Lydia’s going to help.”  He glances at Lydia over Scott’s shoulder, and she nods, once, an affirmative.  “Don’t put your name in any extra times, don’t use Tesserae, just be strong.”

Scott pulls back with watery eyes and nods, for once not protesting.  He fumbles with his collar until the pin is off, and he shoves it into Stiles’ hand.  “To remember your family.”  He says, quickly.

Stiles stares at the pin for just a moment, running his hands over the curls and dips of the iron bird.  “Thank you.”  With shaking hands, he pins it on his own shirt.

“You have to try to win, Stiles.”  Scott says, and Stiles looks up to see Scott’s determined expression.  “I don’t care who else is in the arena –” meaning kids, meaning Derek, “You have to try.”

What he’s asking is selfish and naïve and just a little cruel, not unlike Scott himself, and Stiles grins weakly.  “I promise, Scott.  I promise.”

Lydia shoves Scott aside and takes Stiles’ shoulders in her hands, squeezing tightly.  “All they want is a good show, Stiles, that’s all they want.”  She mutters this quietly, leaning in until Stiles can smell the sage she has a habit of chewing in the morning.

“Lydia, 24 of us go in and only one comes out.”  Stiles responds, equally as quietly.  Scott stands back, sensing a private conversation and for once respecting it.  If this was all it took for Scott to be more considerate, Stiles thinks dizzily, he’d of done this ages ago.  “What are my chances?”

“You’re a _hunter_ , Stiles.  I’ve seen your shot.”

“For _animals_ , Lydia, I don’t know if I can just…”  Stiles mumbles, because he’s had his moments of selfish contemplation, but they’ve never spread so far that he’d be okay with shooting someone else filled with arrows.

“Yes, you can, alright?  You _can_ and you _will_.”  Lydia says fiercely.  “Fuck everyone else, Stiles, don’t think of them as people, think of them as deer.  Shoot them down, win, and come _home_.”  Lydia snarls, her fingers tightening even more.

He pauses, looking at her, the girl he’s been in love with since he was six, the girl who rejected him easily when they were 14.  The girl who stuck around anyway.

“You aren’t going to stop watching this time, are you?”  He says with a quick grin.  It stretches too much on his face and feels horribly fake, and Lydia has a moment of softness, of contemplation.

Before she can answer, the doors open and a Peacekeeper walks in, ready to escort them out.

“Tell my dad I love him, okay?”  He tosses to Scott quickly as they’re shuffled out.

He doesn’t hear Scott answer before the door is closed.

.:.:.

                “Amazing, isn’t it?  The train is going 250 miles an hour and you can barely feel a thing.”  Finstock says, enthusiasm dripping from him pores as he sits across from Stiles and Derek in the plush train car.

                His voice had been an annoying constant for the past couple hours, in the car as they drove to the train, and now as they sit in their over-stuffed chairs.  Derek stares out the window with a detached expression, and Stiles keeps his eyes squarely focused on his hands, which are folded politely in his lap.

                “Now, now, there’s no need to be so _grim_ , it’s the Happy Hunger Games!”  Finstock says, spreading his hands with a smile as he looks at both of them expectantly.

                Stiles imagines himself leaning across the table and punching Finstock as hard as he can, but he keeps his head down and his eyes on his hands.  Derek is the one that snorts.

                “And we are overjoyed to be here.”  His voice is quieter, smoother, more polite, than Stiles expected, and he gives Finstock a look that could freeze boiling water as he turns away from the window for the first time.

                Finstock grins just a tad brighter at the response, Derek’s expression flying right over his head.  “Yes, yes, who wouldn’t be?  Such an honour, after all.”  He claps his hands together.  “Well, Allan should have been here by now, but I guess I’ll go get him.”

                “Allan Deaton?”  Derek speaks up, sounding interested for the first time.  “Allan Deaton is our mentor?”

                “Who else would it be?  It’s not like District 12 has an overabundance of victors to choose from.”  Finstock laugh gaily and sweeps out of the room, letting his final statement hit full value after the door is already closed.

                Stiles feels his stomach to a slow, uncomfortable roll.  Allan Deaton is a quiet, polite drunk you rarely saw in District 12, as he tended to keep to himself in his large house away from the town center.  No confidence leaps into his heart when Stiles pictures a man who’s barely sober enough to do his own shopping attempting to teach Stiles what it’ll take to become a murderer.  Not even if this was the guy who won the Hunger Games a few years back.

                The train car falls into silence again, and Stiles glances at Derek, who is already looking at him with an expression Stiles can’t read.

                “So what do you think will happen now?”  He asks softly, like Stiles is a spooked animal.  Stiles turns his head to the side, avoiding Derek’s gaze and his questions.  “Stiles, you don’t have to say anything, but don’t you think we should –”

                The door opens and Deaton stumbles in, his clothes freshly pressed but smelling so strongly of booze Stiles can smell it from where he’s sitting.

                “Finstock just went to look for you.”  Derek says, and Deaton gives him a quizzical look.

                “Did he now?  The fool wouldn’t be able to find his ass with map.”  Deaton strides towards the open bar, pouring himself a glass of amber-coloured scotch.  As he does, he glances over at the seat Derek and Stiles are perched in uncomfortably.  “Oh, dear.  I certainly fear for District 12’s continued reputation of victory.”

With that, he rustles around the open bar before turning to them again.  “Now, do either of you know where I could find the ice?”      


End file.
